


The Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship

by dottieapple



Series: Li'l Stucky Adventures [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Boys Being Boys, Childhood Friends, Gen, Lil Stucky, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, two boys from brooklyn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-16 20:16:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15444993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dottieapple/pseuds/dottieapple
Summary: The new school year is barely under way, and tiny, daydreaming 8-year-old Steve Rogers is already in trouble at school. Little does he know he's about to make a friend 'til the end of the line.





	The Beginning of a Beautiful Friendship

**Author's Note:**

> Hey readers and fans! I wanted to write something anybody could read, and so I present the adventures of Lil Stucky. These are the tales of two boys, inseparable on the schoolyard, in the neighborhood, and beyond.
> 
> (Commence squee-ing over baby Steve and Bucky...)
> 
> ***

**September, 1926.**

Mrs. O’Halloran was the most terrifying woman at PS 14. She was a classic schoolmarm, with a tight bun at the back of her head, a dark skirt suit, a menacing glare that struck fear into most elementary students, and worst of all, a wooden ruler that never left her hand. She made herself the dictator of her classroom with it, and sometimes would take it to the schoolyard and intimidate all the children there as well. This day was no exception.

The harpy loomed over one of her smallest students beside the fence at recess. “Steven Grant Rogers,” she spat out at the trembling, pale boy. “Twenty minutes. No talking. No playing. Just stand. And if I catch you drawing again instead of paying attention to the lesson today, it’s three raps on the knuckles.” All in all, she was easier on him than she was with other students. The boy was, after all, very short for his age, bird-boned, and almost always sickly.

“Yes ma’am,” Steve responded quietly, his blue eyes focusing on his scuffed shoes. He tried not to move beneath her scrutinizing, unblinking gaze. She was like a vulture. Mrs. O’Halloran made a small grunt of disapproval at something she spied across the schoolyard and went on her way.

Steve sighed in relief. He was disappointed in himself for getting in trouble. His stomach turned nervously as he imagined the letter his mother might receive. She was almost never angry at Steve for getting in trouble at school; she understood that a bright young boy needed to be challenged, and when he was not, he’d spend his time drawing and daydreaming in class. She also knew that with Steve’s poor health, sometimes the boy didn’t have the stamina to make it through a full day of school without exhaustion.

Still, Steve did not like the feeling that he had disappointed his mother by not doing his best. Just the thought of the deflating breath that would pass his mother’s lips as she would later read the note made his already feeble heart skip a few beats. Steve worked hard to make Sarah Rogers proud. He was the only man of the house, and learning was something he could do to make her happy.

Steve watched the other children playing around him--hopscotch, jump rope, a couple of other boys playing at fencing with some sticks. Recess was never Steve’s favorite activity of the school day. He didn’t really have friends to play with anymore, not after spending so much of his summer sick in bed. Steve was never the most popular kid, and three months of little social activity meant he wasn’t on the minds of the other kids when school started again. 

Every now and then, he and Arnie Roth would play pirates or a gentle game of kick the can, but playing sports was never going to be a strength of Steve’s. He would lose his breath too easily, and he didn’t run as fast as the taller kids his own age. He would bleed anytime he fell and scraped his knuckle, elbow, knee. He was always sporting a bruise from God-knows-what. (Bumping into the corner of a desk, losing his balance on a bus ride and bouncing off a seat?) A walking liability, Steve was never anyone’s first choice to join a game of tag or stickball. 

Standing on the edge of the schoolyard for recess sounded just fine to Steve, even if it meant his back would start aching from having to remain in one place for too long. He started to let his mind wander to far off places, imagining something he could draw to show to his ma when he got home. Maybe flowers, or a house that was prettier than their meager 2nd story apartment, something pretty to make up for the day’s misdemeanors. She could hang it on the fridge.

Suddenly, there was a commotion from the opposite corner of the schoolyard. It seemed the late-morning game of schoolyard stickball was giving way to some bad behavior. Mrs. O’Halloran bolted to the crowd of kids who had started yelling and chanting, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” Steve smiled slightly because it was always a riot to see Mrs. O’Halloran running with her ancient legs and her buckled shoes. He pictured her in an ill-fitting baseball uniform instead of a matronly dress outfit, rounding the bases at Dodger Stadium.

The crowd of children dispersed, and Mrs. O’Halloran was set with a purpose, crossing back to the fence line with a dark-haired boy in tow. Her bony, age-spotted hand was wrapped firm around the kid’s thin wrist. He had a scraped knee, a sock that had fallen to his ankle, a sock in its rightful place, and an untied shoelace. His shirt was a little bit dirty. The boy looked rumpled, and while his expression was a grimace, he still looked oddly satisfied with himself. “Don’t talk to this one, Steven,” Mrs. O’Halloran warned with a glare. “He’s in even more trouble than you.”

Steve knew not to move or flinch as the schoolmarm motioned for the dark-haired boy to present his hand. The boy looked down at the ground and held out his hand as he was told. This was clearly not the first time he’d been in trouble. He had an anxious air about him but a posture that was fearless. The boy then muttered, “Kid shouldn’t have stolen that base. Wasn’t right. He was out.”

“James Buchanan Barnes,” Mrs. O’Halloran shushed the kid, “young man, you best keep quiet. Nice little boys don’t hit other little boys on the schoolyard. You do it again, it’s the strap and no recess for a week. You’ll have nothing to do except stand here next to little Steven Rogers.” She jerked his arm out straight, his hand facing palm down. She pulled the ruler from the pocket of her cardigan and raised it high.

This was the part where Steve could flinch. She’d hit him before. She’d hit a lot of the students before, but this was how she kept them in line. O’Halloran was ruthless with the ruler, or even worse, a book strap to the behind at the end of the day if the misbehaving classmate was overly offensive. Most kids would probably then walk home to a parent skinning their hide in addition to what they’d just endured. Steve said a little prayer in his head that this new kid, whoever he was, would be okay.

Steve turned his head away and cringed at the familiar  _ thwack _ of wood over flesh. He was surprised that the other boy made no sound, not even a whimper. Mrs. O’Halloran made him count, and the boy recited each number, low and steady. “One.”  _ Thwack. _ “Two.” Steve darted his eyes to the left to catch a glimpse of the kid’s face properly. He was taller than Steve by a half a head, with wild, dark chestnut hair. The boy’s eyes were wide open, staring O’Halloran down like an alley cat. Three more blows to the boy’s hand, the knuckles reddening deeply, and the kid counted up to five as he’d been instructed.

“Don’t you dare move, Mr. Barnes,” Mrs. O’Halloran bellowed, looking exhausted. “Steven here can at least walk around in about ten minutes.” She regarded Steve with a side-eye, stole a glance at her wristwatch, and made her way back out to patrol the other children. Steve was shaking. He had a hard time hating other people, but he didn’t like anyone who was mean to anyone else.

Once the horrible harpy of PS 14 was clearly out of earshot, the dark-haired boy leaned over to Steve. “Hi Steven,” he whispered, a little too loudly, even for Steve's bad hearing. “What did you do?” James Buchanan Barnes spent a short moment physically sizing Steve up. Steve swallowed hard because such gestures usually happened right before some other kid started to tease him.

He shoved his small hands into his pockets, clenching them into fists. “Was daydreaming,” he managed to mumble. “Shoulda been practicing my subtraction. I’m supposed to stand here and not talk to you.” Steve waited for this kid to laugh at him--what a stupid thing to be punished for, not even fighting or pulling a girl’s hair. Steve continued to slyly regard James Buchanan Barnes’ face, even if it was an odd angle, trying not to turn his head too much. Getting in trouble for talking would probably mean a ruler smack for Steve.

The laugh never came from James. Instead, he turned his head and looked right at Steve. A friendly grin spread over James’ face, and Steve turned just the slightest bit more to notice blue-gray eyes meet his own. “That’s all? You weren’t paying attention to all that boring blathering and now you’re here? Maybe I should’ve been over here with ya at the start of recess because I wasn’t paying attention today either. I learned how to subtract last year.”

Steve looked around nervously then spoke up a little. “Yeah, but you probably didn’t spend the lesson drawing pictures.” 

James began to giggle. “I should have! I was just starin’ out the window at a squirrel in the tree outside, but my work was done.” He leaned closer to Steve, as if he had a secret. “I named the squirrel Buster, like Buster Keaton.”

This made Steve smile, in earnest instead of nervously. “He’s so funny!” is all Steve managed to giggle. Any day he could go with his ma to the pictures was a banner day of adventure, excitement, and all the popcorn he could eat. Sometimes she’d ring up Mrs. Roth and Arnie would come too, but he was usually helping out at the family’s shop or playing outside--something too athletic for Steve’s comfort. He then realized he was missing a key piece of information from the new boy. “Uh, James? What did you do to get in trouble?”

James sighed, rubbing his knuckles, which were darkening to a bright purple. “Okay, so we were all playin’ stickball, and we agreed no stealsies, and then that ginger kid stole second base. No stealin’, right? He says he’s safe, and I says, ‘yerrrr out’, and he said he was safe, and I said ‘them’s the breaks kid’. Then his face gets real red, and he tries to tell his friends  _ he’s _ right and he ain't gonna let some half-Jew mick boss him around, so I punched him. He had it comin’!”

Steve felt a small swell of pride in his skinny body. This Barnes kid seemed different than the other kids in the class. He hadn’t tried to talk down to Steve or make fun of his size. He was hopefully not the kind of person who’d laugh about how all the girls in class [and the old lady teachers] are stronger and faster.

He was still anxious that Mrs. O’Halloran would come by and catch them jabbering away, so Steve settled on a smile and spoke in a voice that he thought maybe made him sound a little bigger than his diminutive stature, “I think you did real good, James.”

“Bucky,” responded James Buchanan Barnes. “You can call me Bucky. Steven?” Bucky cocked his head in question.

“Just call me Steve. That’s what my ma calls me.” And an easy joke came into his mind, a comfortable and new kind of joy. “She calls me ‘sunshine’ too, but you better not.”

Bucky was still cupping his bruised hand. “Steve.” He said it happy, like a good friend would, and gave an impish grin. “You wanna be my friend?”

Steve wasn’t used to any kind of invitation to anything. His heart picked up a few extra beats. “Yeah. Yeah, Bucky, let’s be friends.”   
  
Mrs. O’Halloran was barreling across the schoolyard again, and both boys snapped their eyes to the ground in a charade of penance for their misdeeds. “Steven, you are free to go. Mr. Barnes, don’t move a muscle,” she bellowed, making an abrupt turn to address a situation near the hopscotch game.   
  
Steve didn’t want to leave his new friend behind. He liked the way this all sounded in his head. He started to rehearse what he’d say to his Ma when he got home from school-- _”I made a friend today! At recess!”_ \--and a few apologies just in case she _was_ actually mad at him this time for not paying attention in class.   
  
He turned to Bucky quickly, not wanting to increase his delinquent status by talking to a known schoolyard hooligan. “Bucky. Wait for me after the bell?”

Bucky smiled big and nodded a few too many times. Steve gave a shy wave and shuffled away, only the slightest bit dizzy with his heart pounding inside his small chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Can I just say it's a lot of fun to imagine these days? My grandfather and his brothers were a bunch of little troublemakers during the Great Depression, so they are actually a bit of the inspiration behind these tales. More to come in this series, so stay tuned!
> 
> xo,  
> Dot


End file.
